


The Machinist

by windsorblue



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-13
Updated: 2008-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-11 19:45:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/116244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windsorblue/pseuds/windsorblue





	The Machinist

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[au](http://postwarmiracles.livejournal.com/tag/au), [dorothy](http://postwarmiracles.livejournal.com/tag/dorothy), [duo](http://postwarmiracles.livejournal.com/tag/duo), [fic](http://postwarmiracles.livejournal.com/tag/fic), [gw](http://postwarmiracles.livejournal.com/tag/gw), [heero](http://postwarmiracles.livejournal.com/tag/heero), [nc-17](http://postwarmiracles.livejournal.com/tag/nc-17), [quatre](http://postwarmiracles.livejournal.com/tag/quatre), [trowa](http://postwarmiracles.livejournal.com/tag/trowa)  
  
---|---  
  
**title:** The Machinist  
 **fandom:** Gundam Wing  
 **pairings:** Trowa/Quatre/Dorothy, implied Heero/Duo  
 **warnings:** dystopian AU, sex, adult situations, tentacles  
 **rating:** adult (nc-17)

  


"One more day, one more dollar." This is what I say as I leave my apartment every evening to go to work. Mostly to hear the sound of my own voice; to feel like I'm saying goodbye to someone and that someone's saying goodbye back to me. I'm pretty sure the dogs would hardly notice if I left in silence, but you never can tell - Starbuck's a sensitive girl, after all.

Starbuck's eyeballing me as I get my coat and my keys. Her head's resting on her front paws and her tail thumps a couple of times, and I imagine this is greyhound-speak for 'have a nice day, dear'. She used to live with my mom, so I guess she should sound like her, too. Apollo just farts in his sleep and rolls over onto his back, skinny dog legs in the air. Starbuck sniffs, gets up, and turns herself around so she's not facing his ass anymore.

I can hear Apollo snoring as I lock the door.

\--

He takes the stairs instead of using the elevator. It's a bit tricky for him still - time and physical therapy can only do so much - but no one uses the elevator in his building. It only works sometimes. The last time it worked, Jerry from 13-B shot himself inside it. Bullet to the brain; hell of a mess. Poor fucker had only been back three weeks from his last tour - sixteen months in Darfur with the 81st Airborne. Trowa wondered sometimes what he'd flashed back to right before he pulled the trigger.

So he takes the stairs down to the street and he walks with measured steps, in no big hurry, or at least walking that way. He still has to think about walking, concentrate on it, but it's getting easier, day by day. Bit by bit. Trowa looks up from his feet and down the street - the traffic is light, but it always is now. When he was a kid, this street was packed with cars at this time of day.

Things change, Trowa thinks. Things change.

Trowa remembers how irate his father was the first time he had to pay five bucks for a gallon of gas. He remembers running away from the cops as a teenager, a siphon tube in his back pocket. It was up to $9.50 by then, and his dad was having problems with his knees and couldn't always walk all the way to the bus stop. A man's got to work, his dad would say; and damn if he didn't work - 10 hours a day as a mechanic in a shop that catered to rich assholes with cars that cost more than he made in a year; and then another eight bussing tables at an all-night diner. His mother had been a teacher - did bookkeeping and sold Avon on the side. All that work, and never enough money. His sister Cathy started working retail in her junior year in high school, and Trowa himself had gotten work sweeping up at a dog grooming place when he was a sophomore. Piles and piles of purebred-poodle hair, trimmed off of tiny, purse-sized animals. Animals that were nothing more than accessories for the people that owned them - little living trophies for winning the wealth game. All of his family's dogs had come from the pound or from rescue places - his parents were big into taking in strays.

All that work. And he'd still had to steal gas so his dad could get around.

A silver Mercedes Benz McLaren squeals to a stop as Trowa steps out into the crosswalk. The driver leans out the window and gives Trowa the finger, even though the light is red and Trowa has the right-of-way. He calls Trowa a motherfucker, and Trowa just keeps walking. He thinks about how the Army taught him a hundred different ways to kill jackasses like that guy, and about how he doesn't need to, because his own driving will do the trick just fine. Trowa steps onto the curb, the light turns green, and the tires on the McLaren scream as the driver peels out.

There's a guy sitting on the corner, back against a building, dirty jacket with a Marine Corps 861st patch on the sleeve. He's got burn scars over half of his face and he's watching the McLaren. "What a douchebag," he says to Trowa. "Say, buddy, you got any money? You got any money for a vet? Three and a half years in Tikrit, buddy. Got the scars to prove it."

Trowa pulls all the loose change he has out of his pocket and hands it over. "Twenty-five months in Baghdad with the 15th Armored Division. Semper Fi, brother." There was a time, Trowa's heard tell, when the divisions of the military battled each other almost as much as they battled the enemy. And when he was overseas, sure - there had been competition. There had been Army guys who talked shit about sailors and Marines, and vice versa. But when they came home, they were all in the same goddamned boat - at least as far as Trowa's concerned. They'd all been there and they'd all lost something, or else they wouldn't be home - they'd still be in one goddamned desert or another, still fighting.

The guy looks down at the change Trowa's given him. Three dollars and some, about a fifth of a gallon of gas. Trowa can't help but think of money in terms of how much gas it would buy. It's not much - it's almost nothing - but the guy smiles anyway. "Thanks, brother. God bless."

"You too," Trowa says. And he keeps walking. He's got eight more blocks to go before he gets to work.

\--

Every time I walk into the club, the first thing I notice is the smell. There's nowhere near as much light in here as there is outside, even though it's getting dark - twilight-dark - outside. It's dark enough in here to make my eyes hurt from the change, and the leg's usually kind of tired from the walk, and the music's not going yet so it's quieter inside than it is on the street. So the smell hits me and it's like all the rest of my senses are dicked with just enough to make the smell seem extra-strong.

It smells like nothing else I know, but nothing I can really describe. A little sweat and perfume, a little booze, and a little something else. Maybe the residue of old customers. Maybe dirt from the street, coming in under the doors. It's kind of like a cave in here before the place fills up for the night - like one of those cave cities that the Aztecs or Mayans or whatever used to live in. I've seen pictures of them. They're in Mexico or Arizona or something.

I like it in here, when it feels like this.

Lu's restocking clean glasses at the bar, and the door closes behind me. She looks up, smiles, and asks me if I've eaten today.

"Depends on your definition of 'today'," I say. "I've eaten within the last twenty-four hours," I say.

"Have you eaten since the last time I personally handed you a plate of food and told you to eat it?" She's got this look on her face that reminds me of my sister; of how she looks at me when I'm being a smartass, and it's hard not to laugh. But it's never a good idea to piss someone off who's about to feed you, so I just shake my head.

"No, ma'am," I say.

She nods and says, "Be right back," and pushes through the swinging door between the bar and the kitchen in the back.

We don't actually serve food here. We serve bar food, I should say. We don't serve proper meals. I guess it would be kind of weird if we did. I mean, talk about your dinner and a show. Instead it's just shit like nachos and chicken wings. Sports bar food, like what we're doing here is a sport. You'd think the people who come in here would have better taste in food. Like maybe they'd want something healthier. But they eat like shit and they head off to the can and barf it all up, or they get lipo every six months or so. Some of the regulars, you can tell when the lipo session is coming up by what they're wearing.

I wonder, sometimes, if any of them make bets on what we do. I wonder if there's money to be made on sex club betting. I guess it is a sport, kind of, since only a few of us do it and everyone else here just watches. A sport without any real competition.

Lu comes back with a salad of fresh greens, a bowl of vegetable stew, and a slab of tofu steak. They grow the vegetables themselves in a garden on the roof - Lu and the other owner-partners. The tofu, they usually have to trade for. There's a guy with a soybean farm about ten miles past the Valley who likes being pegged by chicks in schoolgirl uniforms. One night of Une satisfying him feeds all of us for a couple of weeks. "Eat," Lu says, so I sit down at the bar and do as I'm told.

Heero gives me a nod as he walks by, loaded down with crates of imported beer - German, Dutch, Chinese, Mexican, Russian - beer from places we aren't at war with. I figure he probably doesn't have his hearing aid turned up all the way, so I just nod back and keep eating. He puts the crates down on the floor, steals a piece of carrot off my plate, grins and heads into the kitchen. If he was anyone else, I'd be irritated, but considering what he did for me back in Baghdad, I guess I can spot him a chunk of carrot once in a while. When he comes back, Duo's tagging along behind him. Heero grabs a piece of cucumber this time, and Duo reaches out like he's going to do the same, so I smack the back of his hand with my fork.

"Aw, it's like that?" Duo says. "C'mon, man - help a brother out."

"Take a bullet for me, and then we'll talk," I say.

Heero lets out one of his little half-laughs, so I guess his ear's on after all. "Cold, man...cold," Duo says. "I'm a growing boy, don'tcha know."

"Just in the ass area," I reply.

"Fuck you." This is the second time I've been flipped off in the last half-hour. But Heero laughs again, and Duo grins because Heero's laughing, so I figure it's okay to smile along with them. "More cushion for the pushin' anyway," Duo says.

Heero shakes his head and starts unpacking the crates of beer. Duo takes the clean glasses Lu left and puts them in the freezer. By the time the customers get here, they'll be nice and frosty. Just the way they like them. When I finish eating, I take my plate and silverware into the kitchen, wash them, and put them away. Lu keeps special dishes for us - the good china, she calls it; I'm pretty sure she bought it at some other poor fucker's going-out-of-business sale - dishes separate from what the customers use. When Quatre and Dorothy walk in it's time for me to get to work as well. Sunday nights are always busy. Sunday's tentacle night.

\--

Nobody knows how he does it.

That is to say, of the few who think about it, no one's quite figured it out. They all know it's a machine - that it's wires and metal covered in latex, and that it probably runs through a set of programmed maneuvers randomized by computer, that the algorithm that makes it work is probably fairly sophisticated and complex - but it looks lifelike enough to be borderline creepy. And that creepy factor, more than likely, is why it's so popular.

The stage itself is walled off behind plexiglas, like an aquarium, or more like a shark tank - the kind you can walk through while the sharks swim over your head, so you can see all their teeth and how they sway when they swim. There are tables around the stage and there's a viewing room down below, not quite under the stage, but at a much lower angle than floor level. You have to pay extra for that room, but it's never empty. Never on Sundays.

He's always got those two blondes with him - the slender boy with the big blue eyes and the girl who never looks away from the audience while she's getting fucked. He works with the blondes every night, actually, but on Sundays especially the customers are putting their money down to see those blondes writhe. On Sundays they wear these little golden numbers - costumes like something out of an old science fiction movie. The girl's is little more than a bikini with boots; the boy's, ass-hugging shorts and a tight-fitting, short-sleeved shirt with a high neck. The Machinist wears what he always wears - black - like he's trying to blend in with the darkness off-stage. But his pants are too tight to not be noticeable, and newcomers often wonder - sometimes out loud - if that's really his dick or if he stuffs a sock down there. Until he takes it out. Until he unzips those tight black leathers and pulls his cock out, and maybe makes one of the blondes suck it, or jerk him off. There's no more talk of socks, then.

The girl is half on her back, propped up on the tentacle - wire, metal and latex - that's wrapped around her hands like she's being held hostage. Like she's been captured. Her legs are spread wide, one tentacle wrapped around each ankle, and occasionally they twitch like they're alive, or she wriggles like she's struggling against them. But her mouth is open and the audience can hear her, her pleasure amplified through speakers set into every tabletop. Some patrons have the sound turned up as far as it will go, and some have it whisper-low, but none of them have turned it off. Two of the tentacles are inside her, fucking her. They move like pistons, unfeeling and unerring. The Machinist is crouching down before her, and he takes a third cock-tentacle and pushes it, slowly, into her ass. She thrashes and he presses his lips to her bare belly, making a shushing sound punctuated by a small kiss. When the third tentacle is all the way in, he flicks his tongue over her breast, gets to his feet, and moves over to a low podium with a laptop computer sitting on it. He pushes a button and the tentacle starts to move.

The boy is on his knees. His shirt is pushed up and his shorts are open, and one of the tentacles is wrapped around his cock, squeezing and releasing. One is in his mouth - one of the ones with a cock-like tip, and it too moves like a piston, mouth-fucking him. The Machinist moves to stand over the boy, watching him without a sound; watching and listening to the mouth-full noises that come from the boy's throat. He unzips and takes his cock out, stroking it while he watches, and then he pulls the cock-tentacle out of the boy's mouth and puts his own flesh in instead. The boy makes a long, satisfied sound and relaxes his jaw, lets the machinist mouth-fuck him now. The boy tries to bring his hands up to the Machinist's thighs, but the tentacles wrapped around his wrists are short enough to not let him move, all but chaining him to the floor. To the audience, it looks like they've tightened to keep him in place, and a few people whisper in excited tones, and a few reach over to the person they're with and begin touching them - their hair, their skin, their hands and arms. The Machinist glances toward the audience and smiles to himself, just enough for some of the audience members to think that he's smiling at them. Like he enjoys it when they watch him like this. Like maybe he'd fuck them the way he fucks the boy and the girl. Like maybe he'd attach them to one of his machines.

The Machinist pulls his dick out of the boy's mouth and when the boy's mouth stays open, his tongue out - waiting - he puts the tentacle back in and pushes the boy's head down to the floor. He moves behind the boy's ass, up in the air, and strokes himself until he comes, shooting all over the boy's hole. Then he takes another cock-tentacle, rubs the tip of it in his come, and pushes it into the boy. The boy's moving now - when the piston starts thrusting the boy pushes back, fucks back instead of just taking it. And when the boy starts fucking back, the Machinist heads back to the girl. He kneels down next to her head and pulls her by the hair, face-down onto his spent dick. She sucks and licks him until he's hard again, ready to go again.

The show must go on.

\--

"Taking any private clients tonight?"

Since it's Zechs doing the asking, and since he's technically my boss, I answer politely instead of telling him to fuck off like I would if it was a patron doing the asking. And anyway, Mom needs her prescriptions filled soon. "Maybe," I say. "What's the scene?"

"He wants to watch you make his girlfriend fuck another girl."

Duo pushes a glass of water towards me from across the bar and moves off to help someone who tips. I pick it up and take a drink. "I'm a machinist, not a dom. Why can't Wufei do it?"

Zechs snorts. "Like you've never dominated before. Wufei's dance card is full for the night. And besides, the client asked for you specifically."

I take another drink and ask without looking at Zechs, "How much?"

"Ten. Four to the house, you keep six."

I whistle to try to keep my eyes from going wide. "Well. That's hard to pass up."

Zechs nods. He looks like he ought to be one of them - one of the patrons, throwing money away for the next great, crazy high. He dresses like one of them, all suits and ties and slick as hell. But he never takes his coat off when he's here, because if he did, one of the patrons might look for a label and not find one. Lu tailors all his clothes. She's really fucking talented, too, but nobody's going to hire her to be a big designer or something since she's a vet. So she keeps him and the other partners looking good, and somehow she stays okay with that. "Half an hour enough time for you to rehydrate and such?" Zechs asks.

"Sure," I say. When he leaves, I down the rest of my water, set the glass down on the bar top, and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Duo comes over to give me a refill.

"Mom needs new meds?" he asks.

"Yeah," I nod. "They've got her on some kinda Ginko-based thing - supposed to help the neurons start firing again or something. Experimental."

"Shit," Duo mutters. "How much?"

"Two-fifty a pill."

"Shit!" He says it louder, this time. "Do they work?"

I shrug. "Hard to tell. Sometimes she seems lucid. And sometimes..." My finger's running along the rim of the glass, and it's nice and cool under my touch. "Sometimes she can't remember mine or Cathy's names, and can't remember that Dad's not around anymore."

Duo shakes his head. "That's rough, man."

"Yeah." I drain the glass again and push back from the bar. "Better go take a leak before things get crazy."

"Good luck, buddy."

I feel like I ought to smile, so I do. I make myself. I hate taking private clients on Sundays. It's already a long day - the tentacle machine is a bitch to get ready and a bitch to get cleaned up after a show. But six thousand - I could really use that money. So a private client it is.

I hope the client's not a total asshole. I'm really not in the mood for assholes.

\--

The client is an asshole. Trowa's come to this conclusion after about a minute and a half with the guy. He's an asshole who treats his girlfriend like property, and she's one of those stupid, vapid chicks who lets him. He thinks for a second that maybe he shouldn't judge so harshly so quickly, and then the guy asks Trowa his name.

Trowa keeps his face neutral. "No names," Trowa says.

"Oh," says the client. "Right."

"Well, we have to call you something," says the girlfriend.

"You'll call me Sir," Trowa says. His voice is commanding and sharp. It's probably been years since someone spoke to this girl this way. It's probably been never. But she just nods with wide-open eyes and doesn't say anything. Doesn't talk back. And Trowa thinks maybe she's smarter than he'd given her credit for being.

The door to the private room opens and another woman comes in - no one Trowa recognizes, no one he remembers. No one he gives a damn about. But she seems to recognize him, because she gives him a wide smile. "Hi!"

"Hello," Trowa says.

"I just love you - I'm here every weekend, and I never miss a Sunday!"

Trowa nods. He's kind of thrown, but he's trying not to think about anything but the six thousand bucks he's supposed to be earning here. "Thanks."

"Can I have your autograph after this is done?"

Trowa blinks a couple of times. "Excuse me?"

"Hey, hey." The client - the one with the money - speaks up. He takes out his wallet and says, "Times a-wasting. Let's get things rolling, yeah?" He takes out a wad of cash and peels off ten thousand-dollar bills. He does it without blinking, without a casual thought, and in that moment Trowa hates him all over again. "So, y'know...get to it. Make 'em fuck."

Trowa pockets the money and says, "You just want to watch, then?"

"Hell yeah, I want to watch!"

Trowa grabs him by the shoulder and pushes him down - hard, violently - into the nearest chair. "Listen up, then - my scene, my rules. You want to watch, that's what you get. You watch, and nothing else. You don't get to jerk off until we're done or until I say so. I see you so much as scratch your balls and I'll cuff you to that chair for the next week and a half. Got it?"

The guy's breathing heavier when he says, "Yeah, sure - whatever you say." And Trowa keeps his smile inside. He knew he was getting a push-me-around vibe from the guy. Happy to oblige; all too happy.

He takes autograph-girl by the arm and throws her onto the bed. There's a gleam in her eye that makes him wish he'd done it harder. Then he takes the girlfriend's chin and turns her to face him, raises her up to her feet. She's quivering a little and wavering like she's drunk, like she can't stand straight up. He leads her - by the chin, walking backwards, his eyes never letting hers go - to the girl on the bed. "Get on all fours over her and kiss her," Trowa says. She does - gets on all fours, gives the girl on the bed a light, quick kiss - and Trowa pushes her head down with a low growl. "Use your tongue."

She does.

He tells her to take the other girl's shirt off. She does. He tells her to mouth her breasts - to bite at her nipples - through her bra. She does. He tells her to peel the bra down to expose her breasts, but not take it off all the way. She does. He can hear the client's breathing getting heavier - can hear him say small things like 'oh yeah, oh god...' - and when Trowa turns to check, the client's sitting on his hands, but he's not touching himself. Not yet.

"Good boy," Trowa says. And then he turns his back again. Back to work again.

The girlfriend balks a little bit when Trowa tells her to go down on the girl on the bed. She looks up at him and says she doesn't know how. Trowa glances at the client - he's glaring at the back of the girlfriend's head, and he mouths the words, _make her!_ Trowa nods once, and fists the girlfriend's hair. He pulls her head back and says, "It's easy. It's no different than sucking cock. Just think about what you like when someone goes down on you, and do that. Okay?"

The girlfriend's eyes are rolled back trying to see him. "Okay," she breathes.

"Do it," Trowa says, and he pushes her head into the other girl's snatch; down in between her wide-open legs. And she does.

The girl on the bed's making noise like a porn movie, and the girlfriend's starting to get into it on her own, to improvise, using her fingers to fuck along with her tongue. Trowa tells her to lick the girl's asshole, to finger-fuck her, try to get her whole fist into her pussy, and she does it. She does it all. Trowa moves to the side of the bed, pulls a drawer out from underneath, and takes out a plastic-wrapped vibrator and anal beads. He tears the wrapping with his teeth and shows them to the client.

"I'm going to fuck your girlfriend with these," Trowa says. "And when I'm done, I'm going to let you jerk off, but only if you suck my cock while you do."

The client is wide-eyed and breathless when he says "Yeah - okay. Yeah, man. Okay."

Trowa tries not to think while he's putting the vibe in. He tries to hear only the sounds the girlfriend makes and the sounds the autograph-girl makes, and not the things he imagines his mom would say if she knew what he did for her medicine money. He tries not to think of the guy who almost ran him over on the way over here today. He tries not to think about the ex-Marine begging for change, and he tries not to think of Jerry from 13-B, blowing his fucking brains out in the fucking elevator. He pushes the anal beads in and gives them a twist, and tries not to wonder what kind of car his client drives, and what kind the girlfriend drives, and what kind the autograph-girl drives. He tries not to imagine his client filling up his gas tank at 15 bones a gallon without so much as a blink.

He leaves the vibrator and the anal beads inside the girlfriend. The vibrator's still on, and she's moaning and sighing and tongue-fucking the hell out of the girl underneath her. He leaves it in and on as he turns back to the client and takes his cock out. "Suck it." The client unzips his pants and takes out his own cock as he's opening his mouth, and when Trowa feels him tense up like he's going to come he pulls out of the clients mouth, slaps him in the face with his cock, and jerks off until he shoots his load on the client's face.

He takes the vibe and the beads out of the girlfriend and tells her to go clean up her boyfriends face. She does - she's licking Trowa's come off his face while Trowa goes to the sink and runs the vibe and the beads through a sanitation wash. Then he puts them in a small velvet bag and hands them over to the girlfriend. "A souvenir," he says. "Thank you for your business."

"Thank _you,_ " says the client, and he hands Trowa five hundred dollar bills as a tip.

Autograph-girl pulls her shirt back on over her head and says, "So how about that autograph?"

Trowa stares at her for a second, and then he shrugs. He gets another vibrator out of the storage bin, opens up the plastic, and signs it - "The Machinist" - with a thick black marker, and she grins at him like it's Christmas morning and he's fucking Santa Claus.

\--

The club's almost empty when I get back to the bar. After I finished up with my client, I went into the locker room to wash up a little and the next thing I knew I was staring in the mirror and it was half an hour later. Heero's escorting the stragglers out the door and Duo's cracking open beers for all the staff - the good beers, too, so it must've been a good take tonight. I haven't seen Wufei all night, but he's here now, and Dorothy's standing behind him massaging his right shoulder. I nod to him as I take a seat. "How's the arm?"

"The arm's shit," Wufei says. "Spending half the night spanking bankers and stock brokers doesn't help."

"You have a very naughty clientele," Dorothy says. Her voice is teasing, but it always is. Wufei snorts, and then makes a low groan when Dorothy hits a sore spot. It's probably all sore spot, actually - he took a shitload of shrapnel in that shoulder in Fallujah, and a lot of it is still in there. Goddamned lucky he's still got that arm, truth be told.

Quatre comes out of the head and sits down on the stool beside mine, and I try not to notice the private little smile he gives me. I get that smile from him a lot. I'm not sure what it means, or if it means anything at all. It probably doesn't. I try not to obsess about it - not to hope about it - and sometimes I succeed. "Hey," he says. "How was your client?"

"Freakish," I say. "One chick wanted my autograph."

Duo all but howls at this. "Are you shitting me?"

"No, man - said she's here every Sunday."

"Didja give it to her?"

I shrug. "Sure. I mean, why not, right?"

"What'd you do, sign a napkin or something?"

"One of the giveaway vibes."

Duo's laughing outright, now. "Your autograph on a vibe - what a fuckin' trip. That shit's gonna end up on the internet - you just watch." Duo cracks open another beer and hands it to Quatre. "How was your client, Q?"

Quatre takes a sip and says, "Also freakish. He thought Dorothy and I were brother and sister - that was why he asked for us, because he wanted to watch siblings fuck."

"Ew," says Wufei.

Quatre shrugs. Dorothy pats Wufei's shoulder. "It takes all kinds, you know," she says.

"And at least he didn't ask for an autograph," Quatre adds.

"Yeah, yeah..." I wave my hand around as if I can make the subject change by doing so.

Lu saves me by coming out with a tray full of wings and fries - food that was prepared, but no one ordered. The celery on the wing plate is fresh from the garden, and it cracks like a whip when I bite into a piece. Nothing's allowed to go to waste here. It's one of Lu's rules. Most of the degradable trash goes into the compost heap, and if something's still edible, it better damn well get eaten.

It's four in the morning. We're drinking beers and eating sports-bar food, refueling to go back into the real world for a few hours before we come back here again. I have a pocket full of money that's going to be spent by this time tomorrow, but for now, that's okay.

Yeah. It's okay. Okay for now.  


 

 


End file.
